


In Control of Fear

by Meezp



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anger, Awkward Romance, Drama, Drama & Romance, F/M, Fear, Lust, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Sarcasm, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2020-04-08 09:20:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 18,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19104220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meezp/pseuds/Meezp
Summary: Severus Snape is haunted by his past, his present, his future.Can this bad man ever be 'good' enough?Follow him through his torments, revenges and secret indulgences - the most indecent of these being a certain Gryffindor...Desire draws out the darkness within Snape. It comes to the surface as a passionate and anguished need. He'll stop at nothing for her. Even he doesn’t know what he is capable of.Set at the end of HBP into DHs and beyond.Warning: Dark and twisted





	1. Tower

**Author's Note:**

>   
> I wrote this to dig deeper into the character of Snape, exploring what would drive him.  
> I love what a conflicted, brooding and ultimately a bad, bad man he is.  
> Initially set in year 6, with Snape still teaching potions - contains a bit of underage lust depending on your country's laws (Hermione is 16/17) but it will progress only when characters are all 'of age'. Promise.
> 
> This is definitely one for 'slow burn' fanfic fans
> 
> All characters belong to JK Rowling  
> This does not make me any money, merely sick enjoyment

He stood leaning over the window sill with his arms out before him, his fingers delicately spread taking the weight of his shoulders. A lean, wistful silhouette against the brightness and hope of the morning sky. His black robes traced elegantly high up to his neck, pulling against him tightly. Suppression was something he safely wrapped himself up with.

 

His shining, dark eyes reflected the three figures moving through the courtyard in the grounds below, happy voices carrying on the wind to the castle tower where he watched. He’d spent years watching, waiting; not acting. This was a different time, now.

 

He heard a shuffle behind him - in an instant he swept around and met Dumbledore’s eyes, piercing him with their blue, searching gaze. He’d been caught off guard; what had he seen, what did he know?

 

“It’s almost time, Severus,” His voice sounded as if from afar.

 

Snape pulled his eyes away and trapped them on to the door instead, billowing past the other wizard without a word. If the old fool truly knew what he was giving up this time, he should leave him be. He stalked through the ancient wooden doorway without another fleeting glance in Dumbledore’s direction.

 

“Anger is not a useful emotion,” the elderly wizard had called after Snape as he began to descend the stone spiral steps of the tower, “and it certainly will not help Lily’s son.”

 

It was as if fury had detonated an explosion at the front of his mind. Snape stopped and turned, his eyes glaring like two black fires towards the top of the steps where they met Dumbledore’s wise smile - almost acknowledging his successful provocation of his potions master.

 

“I am not doing this to help that egomaniacal brat.” He almost spat the words through his gritted teeth. Did he mean to say that? He tightly clenched his pale fists low behind his back. He was losing control too frequently now. He didn’t care whether Dumbledore knew he couldn’t stand the boy, that wasn’t the problem. He could sense the probing eyes glinting at him through the reflections of his spectacles again.

 

“Why not tell me where your motivations now lie, Severus?” Snape felt a growl erupting in his throat and suppressed it with a curl of his lip instead. He was too close. He’d given enough away already. His fist banged the stone wall as he again began his descent down the steps. Maybe the old wizard wasn’t such an old fool after all.

 

-

 

He knew he should have been more careful, he was definitely losing it now. Back in his dungeon room he held himself up with an arm on a corner of his four-poster. He felt exhausted concealing just plans and secrets, now he beheld new emotions and motivations behind his ever crumbling occlumency walls. He allowed his mind to drift to the night he had first felt it and had to take a seat to brace against the shudder that crept through him.

 

He had been patrolling the ball with another professor, irritably barging past the elated students - all fancifully dressed up as adult wizards, flowing thoughtlessly around the room as if there wasn’t an ongoing war.

 

He barely hid a snarl as a group of them dared to dance too close to his dress robes, brushing his shoulders in an unnecessary exaggeration of personal injury, only to come to the sickening realisation that through the raving delights of the party, he had failed to be noticed enough to be intimidating.

 

Aggravated, he turned on the spot, throwing him straight into a slender woman in a deep blue velvet gown who had waltzed directly into his chest. Instinctively, they held each other in their mutual surprise, she caught hold of both his upper arms and his hands had rested briefly at the small of her back.

 

He thought back: had his hands just rested, or had he naturally pulled this beauty closer towards him? She had gasped, and he felt her chest push up against his. He couldn’t help his eyes. They gravitated down, drawn by her welcoming neckline before, suddenly horrified at his own indiscretion, he dragged them up away from her cleavage and towards her face. He swallowed, his mouth felt dry. For this short moment he hadn’t realised he was beholding the polished chestnut eyes of Miss Hermione Granger. Within an instant he had rushed her hands off him and stalked away, grimacing as he noticed her perfume following him on his robes.

 

“Snape?” The other professor had called after him, but he had no wish to be followed. He had learned quickly that any projection of his character other than being a solitary and unapproachable bastard made hiding everything else much more difficult. If he clung to this detached persona he could exist in both worlds safely. The dark and the light. Thus, he hid, lurking like a caricature of himself in the shadows under the stone arches outside, and watched as the chattering throng started to emerge into the torch-lit courtyard when the music quietened, meaning the night was coming to an end.

 

His pushed his spine poker straight against the cold stone. That had truly been the first time he had been off his guard for years. He scolded himself for his panic, to everyone present it would have appeared a normal every-day accident. Even for Professor Severus Snape it was merely an isolated incident which no one would have thought upon at all – it was only he who knew differently. His standards of behaviour were higher than this. His entire existence depended on his control, and for this one moment in many years, he had lost any semblance of it.

 

He was captured from his thoughts by a glimpse of her. She exited the great doors, lifting her gown with one hand as she attempted to traverse down the steps in her heels. She laughed as she toppled awkwardly yet elegantly along, arm in arm with Ginny Weasley. His eyes danced from her ankles up to the rest of her slender leg which suddenly escaped through a deep slit in the dress that he hadn’t noticed before. He looked away quickly, blinking as if he had looked directly at the sun. He undid the top button of his robes and grasped his chest to feel his heart pounding. What in the world was wrong with him?


	2. Ink

The next few weeks had been much better. Students back in school robes, his authority was no longer under question. He surveyed them, glaring openly over the house tables at breakfast. A group of Gryffindor eyes glanced his way in unison, before darting back at each other to break into a team of laughter. He congratulated himself that he assuredly now didn’t feel any paranoia. House points deducted, heads clipped, detentions distributed. Things were back to normal.

 

Back in his potions classroom he paced, haunting down between the rows of desks, with his hands clenched tightly behind his back, maintaining his ever-straight posture. He observed the students’ work over their diligently hunched shoulders, causing the odd recoil or sharp intake of breath in anticipation of his displeasure as he wafted past them.

 

He stopped behind Draco Malfoy and pointedly examined his progress down his long nose without even bothering to bow his head. Adequate. Opposite was Hermione Granger’s desk. He supposed he had avoided her since the ball, but now he felt different. She was not a woman with any power over him, now simply a school girl - doodling pictures instead of writing his assignment. Merely a child. He’d caught her now.

 

“Miss Granger.” He pronounced with his staccato speech forced through perpetually clenched teeth. She froze, her quill dropping from her hand, causing ink to splash wildly across her desk. The rest of the class looked around, mostly breathing sighs of relief that they were not his target this time.

 

Within two swift steps he was behind her. He flitted his arm smartly over her shoulder to snatch the parchment away from under her quill, sending it clattering obnoxiously on to the stone floor. He steadily brought his mouth down closer to her ear and silkily breathed the words “Detention, and ten points from Griffindor.” Her reactive flinch gave him an urge to smirk with gratification that he had not yet lost his ability to intimidate.

 

Parchment grasped triumphantly in fist, he marched to the front of the class in a billow of black robes. He sensed the silence of the class; the distinct lack of scratching quills meant all eyes were upon him. Oh, he never tired of this.

 

“And why aren’t you back to work?” He questioned, whipping dramatically around to face them, the corners of his mouth twitching with satisfaction as all heads bowed down in fearful synchrony before him – including the brown head of curls belonging to Hermione Granger.

 

He spread her graffiti-marked parchment out before him on his desk, potion-stained from years of brewing. A sudden heat of realisation shot up from his stomach – why on earth had he thought to give her detention? The least amount of time she spent in his presence the better. He sank into his chair and braced his forehead with long fingers. It didn’t matter, he supposed: nothing would matter following his action to take the life of Albus Dumbledore.

 

The thought bred a cold, familiar fear which crept up into his neck, eclipsing all thought and emotion that had been boiling in his chest. His palms became clammy and his breath caught in his throat as uncomfortable palpitations fluttered against his breast bone. He rubbed his temples, firmly pushing his lids over his eyes, willing the unease to slip away into his fingertips instead. He slowed his breathing and filled his mind with a clear, white mist. This was becoming more difficult.

 

His eyes snapped open to the ink-stained parchment in front of him. Through the smudged blots he could make the enchanted doodle Miss Granger had scrawled; two figures repeating the same movement towards each other. They were apart, and then flung towards each other in a sort of embrace – no – a kiss. His eyes darted across the page, one figure was drawn wearing a long dress robe with a slit up one side, and the other... He dared a glare in her direction. The gall of her – she was looking towards him and their eyes met. In horror at the unexpected reciprocation of her stare, she flung her gaze back down to her work, red cheeks blanching to white. There was no further doubt regarding who the second drawn figure was.

 

How should he react?

 

He should throw fury her way. Yes, how dare she even contemplate such a familiarity with a professor? Is this what she thought of their ridiculous encounter at the ball? This is tantamount to defamation, he should take her to her Head of House, the Headmaster, even remove her from all future potions classes.

 

He slumped backwards into his chair. But of course, he couldn’t do any of those things. He crumpled the blotted parchment again in a tight, whitening fist. Making this public would surely only draw attention to his questionable behaviour at the ball. There would at least be rumour, and that alone was enough to make life… difficult. He would destroy the parchment instead. She couldn’t know he had recognised himself in her drawing. It would be forgotten.

 

He looked back towards her desk, and they found themselves again engaged in an exposing locking of eyes. He cursed under his breath as he couldn’t help himself but to instinctively glance away like an embarrassed child. What was she reducing him to?

 

The school bell rang harshly in his ears, causing him to rise from his chair with a start. He tipped his heavy wooden chair to the floor with a crash behind him. It was rare that he would be caught out like this.

 

“Silence!” he erupted, in response to the immediate shuffling of papers and satchels the bell had initiated. “No one leaves until their completed assignment is on my desk.” The class groaned about lunch as all but Hermione Granger again took to their seats, where urgent frantic scribbling recommenced. She shuffled towards him and placed her work on the very edge of his work bench.

 

“When should I return for detention, sir?”

 

Her eyes remained fixed on the paved stone beneath her feet. She wouldn’t notice that he could barely form words.

 

“Tonight.” He mumbled, in anguish at his repeated misjudgements. “Seven ‘O’ Clock.” She gave a curt nod and advanced towards the door, stopping only briefly to hear him warn her through his teeth “Don’t dare to be late.”

 

His glinting black eyes followed her outline as it melted into the gloom of the dungeons’ corridor. When he finally returned his view to his control he saw that both his hands were guiltily stained with smudges of her black ink. Muttering an incantation under his breath, the parchment ignited and disappeared in a wisp of grey ash.


	3. Fear

He tightened the necktie against his high white collar. His black robes, also buttoned high, held him firmly and square. He was meeting Draco this evening, but first he would have to suffer this encounter with Granger.

 

He almost scowled at himself in his office mirror. A portrait behind him coughed, ever a reminder that he was always under observation wherever he should go. He traced his fingertips along his upper arm. A hot flash in his mind of her gripping him there was soon carefully replaced behind his mist of veiled thoughts. How did he convince himself he would ever righteously be accepted onto the side of the Order? A good and just man would surely never have thoughts like these to hide.

 

He again grimaced into his own pale reflection in an acknowledgement that it had always been the path of least resistance for him to follow the Dark Lord. But perhaps it was in this tireless fight against his instincts where he truly proved himself worthy?

 

His door sounded three hesitant knocks.

 

“Enter.”

 

He’d already decided there would be no talking, merely a single instruction to clean the dusty potions glasses and then he’d be rid of her. He planned to organise paperwork in his office, so there would be no need to even look at her. Except here she was approaching him rather than turning away towards the classroom. Her fingers nervously trailed along his desk as she walked towards him, a curl slipping from behind her ear since her bowed head kept her vision on her shoes.

 

“Sir.”

 

He grunted in recognition of her deference, his eyes controlled to the papers in piles in front of him. A torrent of words spilled from her mouth.

 

“Sir, I apologise for the drawing, I know what it must seem – Obviously we were kissing – I didn’t mean to cause embarrassment -“

 

He stood before her, eyes open wild and unblinking at her audacity. He silenced her with a single finger held urgently in front of her face. His teeth had never felt so tightly clenched in his life, it almost hurt.

 

“Miss – Granger” Every word was separated with exasperation – or was it desperation? “I don’t know what you think you are discussing with me, but I assure you this conversation is over.”

 

Before she could respond, he opened the office door behind her and dragged her out by her elbow into the classroom, slamming himself quickly back into the small room, sending papers flying up into the air. How ludicrous he felt, hiding there as parchment flitted and fell around him. He looked down and flexed the hand that had touched her arm. It felt almost on fire. She was too clever not to soon understand the meaning of these overreactions, of his suspicious behaviour. She was dangerous to him, and he had accepted that now.

 

-

 

His first instinct was to resolve thereafter to avoid her. But he couldn’t risk her talking about this with her friends. If Draco was to overhear – his already faltering trust in Severus would fracture further. It could destroy a reputation he had laboured so many years to build. Maybe avoiding her wouldn’t work after all.

 

He didn’t for one moment imagine his pass at feigning ignorance in his office had worked with her. He considered obliviating her memories, but he couldn’t be sure her thoughts or suspicions hadn’t already been communicated further, and then it would be obvious what he had done. Perhaps he would need to… provoke her into silence on the matter. She had proven already that she was not nearly afraid enough of him.

 

He had always felt more secure when fear surrounded him. But every time he thought about the abject fear he would invoke following the plan with Dumbledore, his throat seemed to constrict. Wasn’t this what he always wanted? The kind of power widespread intimidation brewed? He shook himself as if dusting himself off. He combed his fingers back through his long black hair. Universal fear of him then would be the only thing keeping him safe when he returned to the Dark Lord. It had to be real, it had to be true. Another thought flashed up through his mind before being quelled behind the depths of his occlumency. He wasn’t even sure if the thought was his to own: doing this, all of this; in the end would keep her safe.


	4. Good Men

So, he waited, and he watched. He followed her through the grounds. He advanced the towers and monitored her movements. She would be alone soon, and he would show her what a Dark wizard on the side of 'good' really was. She had underestimated him, and she had no power here.

The moment came a week following.

He wondered if she had noticed his presence earlier; she made the odd uneasy shift of her eyes. He tracked her through the corridors down from the library, the heels of her shoes clipping down the staircases towards the transfigurations classrooms. It was becoming dark as the evening crept into night. The mullioned windows revealed a moody sky beyond; clouds masking the moonlight, a shadowed, starless canopy. 

Hermione stumbled attempting to increase her speed. Her breathing quickened; she was sure someone was there. She gave a nervous glance behind her, and Snape was able to see she was clutching a small collection of dusty books to her chest like a shield. Her wand was nowhere in sight. Perfect.

He paused behind a blackened suit of armour, cloaked from view. He filled his lungs with air that felt heavy. He needed to be closer. But her footsteps were no longer sounding down the echoing hall. She was tentatively tracing her steps back with curiosity and courage. Good. Let her come to him.

He stepped out before her without a flourish, looming as a tall, dangerous shadow. With a single, practiced movement he pressed his hand, cupping it over her chin and mouth, and pushed her full force behind a statue. He felt the back of her head hit against the stone wall. Holding her at arm's length, the fingers and thumb of his hand pressed uncomfortably easily into her soft cheeks. With his other hand he brought the tip of his wand into her neck and advanced it slowly, pressing it hard into her skin until he felt her face struggle against his hand. He dared her to make a sound.

They stood silently and still for a moment. The fear in her eyes was unbaiting even as she recognised her assailant. She made no move to escape. He ignored the passive feeling of her lips against his palm as he pressed it into her more firmly, securing his grip. He wondered if this alone would alarm her sufficiently to keep her away from him, or would he have to do more? He'd gotten away with even less of a threat in the past.

He deliberated entering her mind with legilimency. Perhaps he could look and be certain he had done enough. She dropped her arms to her sides, and her books thumped to the floor. The sound caused him to release her and she gulped in air.

"Do it." She gasped.

He considered her. Her face bore a red mark where his hand had been. She was breathing raggedly - maybe he had pushed too hard. He clenched his wand more tightly. How was she still making him feel like she was in control of this?

"Do… what?"

He watched and allowed her trembling hand to reach out towards the tip of his wand before bringing it to her temple firmly. Her eyes didn't leave his confused visage.

"Remove yourself from my mind, from my feelings. Obliviate me. It's too hard like this."

"I should." He reacted, taking a decisive step forwards and pushing his wand harder into the side of her head, causing her to reluctantly lean her defiant head away from him. She closed her eyes and inhaled a slow breath through her nose as if it were her last. He could almost smell her fear and yet she refused to move from him. He dropped his wand arm. This wasn't working, she thought he was a good man still. But good men did the right things; the things that he couldn't do. He had a long way to go.

He looked down at her, and for a fleeting moment he felt an urge rise within him to press her against the stone and kiss her hard, hard enough to feel her gasp into his mouth.

"Go back to Gryffindor tower." He fired her the fiercest glare that his dark eyes could expel, his teeth almost bared. His cheeks seared hot. "Now, Miss Granger," he growled and didn't wait for her to move before marching away. His robes whipped wildly behind him. He cast a fire-red spell recklessly into the darkness and all the portraits in the corridor fell from the walls.


	5. Firewhiskey

The time for Dumbledore’s anticipated fate would have to arrive soon, else there would be nothing left of the man who was planned to perform the dreaded duty. He felt his will crumbling through his fingers. He had just one last thing to try. He needed proof his mind was still his to own.

 

He sat in his office chair with his head in his hands and finally permitted himself to think of Lily. Bringing her to the forefront of his mind was an experience he had fought away so long. It demanded great effort from him, he kept his precious memories of her locked away so tightly.

 

He pictured what her expression might have been as she was struck by the Dark Lord. This vision had, in the past, filled him with a guilt and sadness so cutting that to extricate himself from lamentation took hours. Once, he had hurt himself to obtain release from it - a seared wand-burn still scarred his arm as an eternal marker of his grief. But now; try as he might, he couldn’t break through the strong barrier to emotion that Hermione Granger had walled around his mind.

 

For years all he had wanted was the freedom to grieve for Lily’s death, but now he allowed himself to feel it, all his powerful mind could muster was the image of the reddened mouth of Miss Granger an hour before. Her eyes watering, shining like crystal. She had been afraid, but her fear was reserved only for her feelings, and not him. That was something he had never witnessed before.

 

He banged a fist on his desk roaring in yet more frustration, ignoring the startled admonitions of the portrait dwellers about the room. How could he ever face the Dark Lord again with his mind so destabilised? Maybe it was he, Severus, that required obliviation. He paused. He certainly couldn’t do that safely himself. Perhaps if he forced an admission of this perverse problem to Dumbledore he would understand enough to save him from himself? He wasn’t so desperate just yet.

 

-

 

The next morning had been the day Dumbledore had discovered him in the tower. A fine coincidence indeed, or perhaps his presence had been calculated. Did he pity his potions master – had he worked it out without formal explanation? Dumbledore had mercifully disentangled him once before from the trouble his heart had led him to, perhaps he sensed Severus’ repeated spiral into turmoil.

 

That evening, Snape dwelled further upon his predictament. The only weapon he had left in this war was control of his mind and emotion, yet each hour that passed caused him to feel even more robbed of it. He threw back glass after glass of firewhiskey but nothing helped. If anything, it worsened his ability to resist the flashes in his mind of Hermione Granger.

 

First, he witnessed an enhanced image of her slender, perfectly pale leg, length accentuated by her elegant heel as it peeked from the deep slit in her dress robe. He imagined himself sliding his hand from her ankle up towards her thigh as it wrapped around him.

 

The next flash was of the way she pressed against his body when she breathed heavily in their accidental embrace at the ball. Her scent filled his senses and he could feel the softness and the shape of her firm breasts as they moved against his chest.

 

Then, he could see how her eyes were burning into him as he pushed her hard against the corridor wall. She was glancing between his eyes and his mouth. He relived how she’d admitted she couldn’t stand her feelings anymore. How he’d been too aroused to stay near her any longer. He couldn’t take it.

 

He held his glass so firmly it shattered in his hand, but he felt nothing. He had to see her – no – he had to go to Dumbledore and have himself… fixed.

 

The cold of the dungeon corridors sobering him quickly, he stumbled up towards the gargoyles guarding the headmaster’s office. He had no plan how he would explain this. Perhaps the old wizard could just siphon away his thoughts from him there and then, watch them and rid him of them – both an explanation and a simultaneous cure.

 

And that’s when it happened.

 

He was summoned to the astronomy tower – it was time. The deed was done, and he was to flee.


	6. The Tavern

Months passed.

 

Snape thought grimly about how satisfied the members of the Order must be now their suspicions about him were confirmed. The way they searched his face at each meeting, he had felt under constant scrutiny. At least he didn’t need to pretend he liked any of them anymore. Although he had never tried particularly hard at that, he admitted. He didn’t need any of the pathetic Order to follow through with saving the bloody world . It was them that needed help from him. The first task had been feeding ideas through Mundungus Fletcher – it had almost been too easy.

 

Of course, they would protect their precious Grimmauld Place against him, but again, he had found with embarrassing ease that he was able to break through their attempts to repel him. Had they underestimated him so much as to not even bother increasing their defences? It was offensive. Still, he had more work to do.

 

Hooded, he made his way down from Spinners’ End, slipping over shining wet cobbles to a hovel of a tavern on the dark corner. There was no signage, just a flickering lamp outside warped wooden-framed windows. It lit the rain falling onto the panes, opaque with dust; the white-noise pattering the only sound in the air. He was rarely provoked to leave the privacy of his terrace, but he knew who would be there tonight.

 

One week prior, he had summoned Dobby and informed him to pass information to Miss Granger. He would be expecting to meet a witch in the tavern this night, in order to obtain collected information from spies about the Order.

 

“Inform her that I have never met this witch before, and that you have intercepted this invitation to meet before it was received.” Dobby’s large round eyes focussed unwaveringly on Snape. “Ensure that she is… led towards formulating a plan to meet me instead, for her own information-gathering purposes. She will no doubt work out the rest.”

 

Dobby nodded his head briskly and grasped Snape’s proffered envelope, diligently disappearing with a crack. Snape knew she wouldn’t let him down, how could she resist another attempt to outsmart him with polyjuice?

 

Arriving at the tavern, he pushed the door and ducked to enter. The wooden beams hung low, covered with brass ornaments, old hunting rifles and iron horseshoes. This was a muggle place, patronised by local farmers, and he was pleased to see very few of them were present tonight.

 

“Meeting someone, Mister Snape?” the Landlord offered interestedly, aware of the infrequence of the presence his solitary neighbour graced him with, and handing him a battered pewter tankard of ale.

 

“The social animal that I am.” Snape confirmed with a curt bow of his head, shrugging off his long, wet muggle coat with an out-of-character smile, causing the landlord to emit a bark of laughter. He nodded towards a cloaked figure on a chair in the corner. Of course, she was early. He had always warned her not to be late.

 

A small fire crackled in the old hearth. The chimney in good need of a sweep; it filled the air with a light haze of smoke. Snape enjoyed the further privacy this offered and confidently took the chair opposite the witch, drinking deeply from his tankard of ale. He could be different here. Here, he wasn’t the punishing, uncompromising Potions-Master. There was no wizarding war plaguing the minds of this tavern’s patrons. The pair could go unnoticed.

 

She eyed him suspiciously from under the hood of her cloak.

 

“You know,” he started, taking another gulp of ale and pointing airily around the room, “it’s not raining in here.”

 

He waited. She gave him a confused look, and he gestured amusedly at her outer attire.

 

“I’m just simply blown away with how bloody conspicuous your attempt at being inconspicuous has been… Esmerelda.” He laboured her name. He wanted her to feel uncomfortable. Let him lead, here, he willed her.

 

She gave a quick “Oh!” and shuffled out of her cloak, revealing an attractive, red-haired lady in her twenties, wearing muggle clothing that would likely fit in anywhere. He was in all honesty impressed, he’d never witnessed one of her transformations, and he could see she brewed most accurately.

 

He flashed her a warm smile. He noticed her unease at his curious familiarity, but he didn’t react. He had to feign a comfort throughout their scheming and lies that confirmed him to be a duplicitous murderer; the two-faced vessel of Voldemort’s will. He must persist with behaving so very unlike his usual performance around her that she continued to trust his ignorance of her true identity. He casually crossed his legs and his straight back gave way to something very close to a slouch against the back of his chair.

 

She offered him some useless titbits of information about movements of the Order. He laughed jovially. He barely listened to the information he knew to be false and started asking her about herself instead. Whatever she came up with would be more revealing. It felt like a game; he was almost testing if he would have caught her out had he been unaware of her use of polyjuice.

 

He persuaded himself he needed to be closer to plant the tracking spell he planned – this plot had been the only reason he had risked an encounter with her. He’d had success with this spell from a much greater distance before, but he wanted to be sure she didn’t notice and, well - he felt impulsive. This would probably be the last time he would be ever be near her.

 

He leaned forwards, shifting his chair closer to her, and closed his long fingers evocatively around her forearm, bringing her towards him slightly. He felt her startle against his hand. Without losing eye contact he gently lifted a finger to stroke her jaw instead, thumb grazing her lower lip. He preyed on the fact she had no real idea of the structure these meetings took. For all she knew, this is what was to be expected. He berated himself inwardly - was he really using this as an opportunity to be a letch, knowing she couldn’t react without risk of breaking her cover?

 

Sometimes it was hard to remember which persona of Severus Snape the act really was. Was he a good man only playing at this wickedness, or was this the genuine version: this intrinsically bad man kidding himself that all could be blamed on actions in the name of righteousness? He got away with murder. He could get away with just about anything.

 

He felt power surge through him. A fantasy of the real body of Hermione swirled into his consciousness like incense smoke. Taking another swig of ale, he ran from habit and chose not to shake it away. His eyes darted openly up her legs and he daringly pressed a hand high on her thigh. He was close enough to smell her perfume.

 

He paused. Her perfume.

 

It cannot have been an accident that she was wearing her own scent. The same that she wore at the ball. This was an obvious tell. She wanted to be discovered. Hot acid of realisation dropped inside him centrally – had she worked him out? Was she trying to send him a message?

 

Thoughts flickered quickly in his head – he should play ignorant still. If she suspected his true motives and was testing him, it was imperative that this test failed. He must clearly proceed; staying true to the charade of being unaware that she was not this ‘Esmerelda’. Didn’t she understand all she was risking with this trick? If only he could reprimand her now, highlight the danger she would have put herself in had she been mistaken; had he truly been the pawn of the Dark Lord.

 

He stared, shaken by her obstinacy and unable to hold back the silent glare towards the face of the young red-haired woman who bore the mind of this all-too-courageous witch. He moved to slump back in his chair. The game was over.

 

She suddenly moved forwards and covered his hand with hers, pressing it back onto her leg. She pulled his wrist, moving his hold up her skirt and closer to her hip. He could feel the lace of her underwear under his fingers. Frozen with disbelief, he struggled to respond naturally to her action. She ignored this and guided her other hand onto his chest. It slid from the skin where his shirt was left unbuttoned, up to his neck. She caressed him firmly, his neck exposed where his high collar would normally protect him.

 

Her eyes met his; dark and remaining unable to contain their incredulity, as she moved herself closer to his face. Their lips were almost aligned before she took an alternative route, moving towards his ear instead. Her hot breath on his skin caused him to alight all over his body. He felt soft lips graze his earlobe and visceral instinct took over.

 

He gripped her with both hands around her hips and pulled her on to him so that she straddled his lap. He looked up into her fiery face above him. Only she could wear that expression of simultaneous fear and desire. He had wanted this for so long.

 

She pulled him insistently into a deep kiss, working her fingers through his hair. He could feel an urgent longing fight through her soft lips as he returned her hard kiss, their tongues explored each other with a burning demand. He felt her in this stranger’s body push closer to his. It was almost as if he could feel her, the real her, straining against the polyjuice potion with need.

 

A wolf whistle called at them from across the tavern and they broke apart, breathing heavily. Remaining close to her face, Severus gave a chuckle and an embarrassed raised eyebrow to the landlord who was delivering a mortifying ‘thumbs up’ in their direction. Hermione smiled with Esmerelda’s grin, looking around to the bar with her arms draped around Severus’ neck as if they were seasoned lovers. She whispered carelessly in to his ear,

 

“Was this your plan all along, Professor?”

 

He stood up so quickly she fell from his knees, barely avoiding a topple to the floor. Ale spilled.

 

“Professor?” he repeated, with a look of horror. Why couldn’t she just… keep up the pretence?

 

To keep his cover, he would have to attack or escape. He chose the latter, and almost fell from the tavern, red-faced and dragging his coat behind him. He apparated immediately after crossing the threshold, without a look back.


	7. Smoke

Striding heavily through the long grass in the night, he cursed over and over. He'd apparated into the middle of bloody nowhere, and he hadn't even cast the tracking spell - what was wrong with him? His mind, seemingly oblivious to his torment, replayed the way the lace had felt as his fingers grazed over her hips towards her bum. He stopped, breathing heavily in the dark rain, shining black as it plastered his long hair to his head. He cursed at the top of his voice, ripping into the night. Birds sprang from the trees. He felt better.

How could she… how was she so sure he was on the side of good? After all he had done. He had just witnessed her betting her life on it, but with what proof? If there was any tangible evidence she would do better to allow him to find it and destroy it, to protect him from being discovered by anyone else.

His long coat swelled around his body in the wind. Something heavy in one of the deep pockets hit against his leg. It felt hot. Slowly sliding his hand down, he retrieved a golden galleon. Around the edge read the words "Sorry, Sir."

-

He had walked through the night back to Spinner's End. He hadn't wanted to leave any more magical traces of his whereabouts, and he needed to clear his mind. On arriving back inside his terrace, he fell into his tattered armchair, his wand lighting the measly fire along with a cigar. He had to allow himself some small pleasures in this world. Tight, black muggle denim stuck to his lean legs, wet with rain. He had omitted to magically dry himself, distracted from the cold once burning tobacco filled his lungs.

Smoke curled above his head as he took out the shining galleon again and eyed it closely. It flashed gold in the flickering firelight. He grimaced, stroking the shadow of stubble around his jaw; she was so persistent in her trust of him. There was no hiding from her understanding of him, now. He supposed he would have to at least utilise it to the advantage of the war. He shook his head, aware of the obvious potential for throwing her in harm's way. But she was an adult, 'of age', she had made this decision herself. She was already following the Potter boy into an arguably greater mess than his.

His mastery of the Protean charm unmatched, he could use it to follow her, ensure her safety if he could - and the boy's of course - producing the sword when it was time. This was possibly a more elegant method of achieving this aim than his tracking charm had been. The thought was as effervescent as the puffs of smoke before his eyes as he tugged deeply on his cigar before moving on.

He would need therefore, to return her message. The thought cut deeply. Responding would surely mean admitting he had known the red-headed witch had been Hermione Granger, throughout the night. All throughout his lustful groping of her. She cannot have missed his arousal as she straddled him, and she would know, ultimately that it was for her, and not the invented 'Esmerelda'. The thought of this exposure distracted him.

Smoke danced evocatively from his nostrils and mouth. 

"Not sorry enough." He wrote back.


	8. Sword

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long wait for this chapter.  
> Real life getting in the way, worst luck.  
> I have rewarded your patience with a longer one than usual!  
> Please review, any ideas/comments greatly appreciated.

He returned to Hogwarts, spending most of his time concealed in the Headmaster’s office. Headmaster of Hogwarts. If only his mother could see him now… he grimaced at the thought. He’d spend his evenings meeting the Dark Lord’s demands or rocking in the Headmaster’s chair, masking angst with firewhiskey. Not exactly how he had pictured it.

 

He had long surpassed the need to feel guilty for taking a few glasses throughout midweek evenings. As least it wasn’t potion, he would be foolish to return to bad habits – he had always seemed to suffer with an addictive personality. He was sure Dumbledore’s portrait would notice immediately if he started taking concoctions other than alcohol. The last thing he needed was a painting on his back.

 

He had positioned both the desk and chair to face away from the the old wizard’s picture. He felt the familiar, cold knife-point of bitterness cut through him whenever he caught a glimpse of his brightly coloured robes flash in the portrait behind. Thankfully this Dumbledore seemed to have recognised his need for solitude, and rarely spoke.

 

Everything felt wrong – with no classes to teach, he had no focus, and struggled to enjoy even distributing punishments. He actually felt sorry for some of the students. His resolve was fracturing again. He knocked back his glass of firewhiskey and pulled his lips over his teeth. At least he didn’t feel sorry for himself. Yet.

 

He couldn’t spend any more time in Hogwarts than was absolutely necessary. He had chosen instead to frequently disappear; to follow where the galleon directed him. Over misted moors and through shadowed forests he pursued her. These were risks he knew he shouldn’t have taken, but that had never stopped him before. Few would dare question him now, he felt freer than he had for years.

 

Kept hidden, he watched Granger as she cast wards around the campsites she shared with Potter and Weasley. She would often look out, scanning the horizons to confirm their concealment. Often he mused upon the idea that she might be looking for him. Of course, she would be wasting her time, as he would never allow himself to be spotted. Once or twice she even provoked him, sending the heated message; “You’re here - where?” but it wouldn’t tempt him to show himself.

 

He knew the reason she wanted to see him was merely to confirm everything she had suspected and discovered about him. She wanted to prove to herself, and to him, that she was right - seeking the approval she had always sought. He refused to rise to it, and aside from his first response to her, he had neglected to return any further message via the galleon. He couldn’t risk it. He couldn’t give any more of himself away. In all honestly he didn't want to give her the satisfaction of admitting she had caught him out. Granger, however, persisted in indulging him with as much information as was possible through the coin, being that it only held few words at a time. She always was so talkative. He smirked at the irony of her own plan restricting her so.

 

His following of her - he maintained - was to ensure she was on the right track with Potter, that she was safe, and to ensure she needn’t reveal anything about her suspicions of him, Snape, to her friends. But each time he caught a view of her he felt his ears heat up, then spread a warmth down his body to his legs. He felt almost angry with her that she made his body betray him like this.

 

Once, after he had spent half the night with the Dark Lord, rather than sensibly taking himself to bed he had instead worked his way through most of a bottle of firewhiskey. This retreat into oblivion was becoming more and more habitual. His swimming eyes caught the shining galleon glinting on his side table. It showed a new location - and his drowning heart leapt and he stuffed the coin clumsily into his robes, marching out to the Forbidden Forest and apparating away.

 

He stumbled through blue early morning mist in the mountains, sensing her wards nearby. He slowed his breathing. Eventually, he glimpsed her leaving the tent. She was wrapped only in a towel, following a small brook towards open water to bathe. She was safe, he knew her wards were effective, and he’d checked: she’d done a fine job of ensuring they were alone on that mountain. She didn’t need protection here. Except perhaps from him.

 

He gripped onto the tall tree trunks to steady himself as he passed, holding his whiskey bottle by its neck in the other hand. It was difficult to follow her quickly without being seen, particularly whilst inebriated – his path would have to be longer than hers to maintain his discretion. The brook led into a lake in a plateau on the mountaintop. The rising sun lit the mist that lingered over its surface. As he arrived at the edge of the trees before the clearing, panting, he witnessed her crouching down by the side of the water, passing her hand across the surface, apparently testing its temperature.

 

He pressed his back up against a wide tree and allowed himself to sink down onto the floor against it, his knees purposefully buckling with his boots out before him.  He relaxed his posture, expiring a heavy, alcohol-fired breath. She would only be able to see him if she looked directly towards him, up the scree slope; his cloak masked him against the dark bark and the haze. He took a long slug of the whiskey direct from the bottle beside him and wiped his mouth with the back of his arm.

 

She stood, looking out over the lake away from him, and dropped her towel.

 

He knew this was coming but he choked on his firewhiskey all the same. Her pale, flawless skin almost shone in the morning light as it skimmed over the smooth surface from her shoulders, down her waist, and over her perfectly rounded bum. He froze mid-way through an inward breath as she took tentative steps on tip-toes into the clear water. His mouth lay half open as his eyes laboured along her endless legs as they disappeared under the surface of the lake.

 

As she walked deeper still into the water, she dipped her head and submerged herself momentarily, the gentle splashing sound of her re-emergence into the light filled the otherwise silent air. He could see her usually unruly hair now tamed with the weight of the water, tracing a wet line down her spine leading to faultless hips. Remembering suddenly to blink, to breathe, he silently begged this beautiful creature to turn towards him. Without taking his eyes away from her in case he missed a part of her perfect body, he mindlessly grasped for the bottle beside him, knocking it over, but he failed to notice.

 

He ached for her. He had never ached like this for anyone, for anything. He grasped around in the deep pockets of his robe for the galleon – just to have something to hold that made him feel closer to her, a part of her life. He warmed the cold metal with the palms of his hands. He valued this connection, despite his attempts for it to appear otherwise.

 

“Hermione?”

 

The girl looked over her shoulder behind her – Potter was calling her name from deeper in the trees.

 

Silently cursing and immediately sobering, Snape scrambled on his hands and knees backwards to the safety of the forest’s canopy and behind the trunk of a large oak before he could safely stand. He peered out and saw the back of Potter as he walked by directly where Snape had just been sitting.

 

Down by the lake, Hermione was covering herself with the towel. As he paced, Potter’s foot caught something solid and it clunked as he kicked it. It rolled gracelessly down the scree towards the lake, spilling its remaining contents this way and that in its tumble. The firewhiskey bottle came to rest at Miss Granger’s feet. Snape prayed that in their confusion they wouldn’t hear the crack of his apparating away.

 

-

 

He ignored the galleon as it glowed warm in his palm as he strode towards the castle. ‘Little know-it-all’ he murmured to himself with gritted teeth, attempting to ignore his sustained arousal. Of course, she knew he was there. He didn’t need to look at her self-congratulatory message to prove it. She’d be looking for him, asking him to show himself again. He shouldn’t have been there.

 

She had kept pressing him to allow her to enlighten Potter - even the whole Order - with where his true allegiances lay. ‘To make it easier’ she wrote. His refusal to respond was his answer. It was the only way he could carry on, but she continued to push. It was delicately done, but he wasn’t insensible to her pressure – and he would not allow himself to be manipulated. At least, no more than he had already suffered at the hands of so many others.

 

His aim wasn’t to be the hero, he was no Gryffindor leader. His only task remaining was, when the time was right: to deliver the sword. This would be good enough to assist Mr Potter through the next part of the war, according to Dumbledore, and then all Snape had left to do in this world was simply to survive. Or perhaps not even to do that. He would keep Hogwarts somewhat safe, until he inevitably lost favour with the Dark Lord and was next on the list of tortured and murdered wizards.

 

He looked down at his scarred forearms and rolled his sleeves from his elbows down past his wrists – back to their usual, taut and concealing place. Since Voldemort’s return he had endured plentiful and painful interrogations and torment, and he wasn’t sure how many more he could withstand and continue maintain his guise. He had to get a move on. He sat back in the headmaster’s chair and promptly fell asleep.

 

-

 

A few evenings later, the galleon glowed; the Forest of Dean. The time was now.

 

Without bothering to wake Dumbledore’s portrait, he swung it aside, retrieved the hidden sword behind and flung it back closed over the secret opening. The sleeping figure coughed awake.

 

“Going somewhere, Severus?” Dumbledore called hoarsely after him.

 

He stopped, turning to face the elderly wizard in the painting. It was the first time in months he had allowed himself to properly set his eyes on Dumbledore, who now peered at Snape through his long, silvery hair. His permanent expression of mild amusement could be seen past the glinting of his spectacles; highlighted by a glorious morning sun painted shining through a window behind his chair.

 

“Obviously.” Snape answered, slowly enunciating the syllables to express his irritation. Whenever he had spoken with Dumbledore, even in to the maturity of adulthood, he had enduringly felt like he was being treated like the same wan child pulled up to be reprimanded by the headmaster for using Dark spells.

 

“Yes?” questioned Dumbledore, pulling his glasses to the very end of his nose, and eyeing Snape carefully over them.

 

Snape cursed and impatiently gestured with the Sword of Gryffindor. “I’m getting this to the boy, as you bloody asked.” He turned to leave.

 

“Were you visiting them before? Are they aware you are… helping?”

 

“No.” He lied through his gritted teeth before throwing floo powder angrily into the fireplace and dramatically escaping the conversation into Hogsmeade where he could apparate after picking up another few bottles of firewhiskey for his collection. He knew he’d need them following.

 

With a crack, he felt his feet plant firmly on to the soft forest floor. He could sense the magic surrounding their campsite, and knew he was in the right place. If there was any moment that he could prove himself to be good; give Potter – and thus the Order – real evidence that he was not working for Lord Voldemort, it was now.

 

The sword was his salvation. He could enter the wards, holding the hilt towards Potter, head bowed, akin to a gesture of reverence – with the safety of the knowledge that Miss Granger would support whatever explanation for his actions he would make. He saw the moment play out in his mind. Potter would be held back from attacking long enough for him to relay the true events in place of false appearances. Maybe the night would end in embraces all around, perhaps tears.

 

“Sod that.”

 

He dropped the sword, disinterested, into a small expanse of water. It plunged silently into the depths and Snape waved a hand lazily over the surface, freezing it before promptly turning away with a look of disgust like it offended him. Merlin save him if he was going to have to stay and watch that play out. He produced his Patronus with a waft of his wand and sent her trotting off the opposite direction into the forest to find Potter. A visible cloud of his breath shot out from him into the cold air as he saw her graceful, silvery-blue outline disappear behind rows of dark trees. So - Lily was still a part of him somewhere, just hidden deeply.

 

He fingered the galleon in his pocket and contemplated the witch waiting in the tent for Potter to return. She alone would realise it had been him. His lip curled into a small smile at the thought of her annoyance that he had done this, as always, unseen. Uncredited. Unforgiven. He waited for the coin to warm.

 

Sure enough, half an hour later, it glowed with heat.

 

“Bastard.” It read.

 

He chuckled, and apparated away.


	9. Patience

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Times get dark for Snape  
> What do you think?

Now the task was complete, he supposed he could let himself really drink properly again. He rewarded himself with cigar upon cigar, bottle upon bottle of firewhiskey. Days would pass by and no one would see him outside his office. Why should they? No one out there deserved his attention. He lived tangled within his dichotomy of self-importance and self-loathing. Most nights he drank heavily enough that his desk chair was good enough to sleep in. The evenings he did make it down to his rooms in the dungeons, he would collapse onto his four-poster fully clothed, only to rise to pour another glass. Severus Snape had never looked after himself properly, but now; truly this was neglect.

 

His disregard for his appearance now amounted to a stale odour of alcohol on his robes, unkempt hair. Weight fell from him as he rarely troubled himself to eat. He’d stopped bothering to remove the bottles from his desk when his staff visited his office. When McGonagall questioned him about it, he would toss empties in her general direction until she left. It usually worked. Dumbledore hadn’t spoken to him since he’d delivered the sword. Initially he felt relieved not to be accosted by those questioning eyes, but as the days rolled on he started to feel as if he had only ever been used to be discarded again.

 

During his sober hours he reassured himself of his occlumency prowess, practicing over and over as he had in his youth, obsessing over every small detail. He’d focus on locking away almost everything in his memories but retrieving the moments he was snide or sarcastic to be ready to pluck to the fore should it be called upon as evidence. He knew that over the years this skill had started to seep into his real character. Falsely making himself remember and believe he was worse than he was. Forcing him to behave in a certain way in order to have something to ‘show’. Eventually the act would become the man. He questioned whether this false identity had become an addiction in itself. Would he ever be able to rid himself of this if he ever lived to a time where it was no longer necessary?

 

He knew occlumency was harder to perform whilst drunk, he’d learned that the hard way with Lucius Malfoy many years ago. Since then he routinely carried a sobering potion in case he was called by the Dark Lord unaware. He preferred to avoid true sobriety if he had a choice. Recently, alcohol was better at protecting himself from his thoughts and emotions than occlumency had ever been. It was easier, at least. With alcohol he didn’t have to closely examine everything before shutting it away. He knew he was a bastard without having to remind himself over and over again.

 

It reminded him of how he felt in the days he had brewed, and used, a potion of his own invention. _Deditio_ was bottled, purest addiction. It had been a long time since he had surrendered to those depths. Only one bottle remained of his final batch – distilled and undiltuted in a small vial at a strength he knew he would not recover from, once imbibed. His safety fall-back to take himself out of the picture under his own control should the worst happen.

 

-

 

One evening he awoke, disoriented, finding himself stiffly face-down on top of his duvet. He lifted his head, scratching days’ worth of stubble along the fabric. It was practically a full beard, now. Perhaps he would just let it go and concede to facial hair, as he had to everything else. Bleary eyed, he looked towards the galleon in his hand, its heat had caused him to wake.

 

“This fucking thing,” he muttered, flinging it against the wall, smashing a row of potions bottles like skittles. He dropped his head back onto his bed in defeat. Did his life always need to go this way?

 

He drew himself up on one of the bed-posts. He looked down to the galleon on the floor as it rolled to the corner of the room. It was now partially submerged in the various concoctions that had sprayed themselves all up the walls, too. One of the cold, stone flagstones was melting into a green paste on coming into contact with the mixture. Taking a deep breath, forced himself to stand. He knew he wasn’t going to avoid it forever, he might as well see what it said now. Who was he kidding, he was desperate for news from her - as degrading as that felt to admit. His legs gave way and he fell back onto the bed; another defeat.

 

He grabbed at his wand and pointed at the coin instead, “Accio galleon,” he grumbled.

 

Its shiny surface now grubby, it read one word: ‘Help.’

 

Instantly he strumbled across the room, fumbling around in the pockets of his outer robe which was discarded, dusty and stained over one of his chairs. He took a deep swig, emptying the vial of sobering potion down his throat and gasped, shaking with the pain that coursed through his body. Wide-eyed and panting he wrapped his robe around his shivering form and held the galleon in his wand arm, concentrating hard.

 

‘Where?’ he wrote. The first response he had deigned to give her.

 

He waited, trying to slow his breathing. The seconds drew out like hours. The galleon heated again. He held his breath.

 

‘Malfoy Manor.’ Came the response. He pushed all the air out of his lungs and closed his eyes tight. The one place he couldn’t help her. He growled with fury and flung the galleon a second time against the wall. Falling backwards onto his bed, head in his hands he called out towards the ceiling. He felt truly useless. He had been captive his whole life in his own skin, unable to be any kind of respectable person, and here, yet again the world proved to him that he was perpetually under its thumb.

 

“Dobby!” He called.

 

-

 

He strode towards Malfoy Manor, clasping his pale hands into fists. His head pounded with every throbbing beat of his heart. He could see the thrill bursting from Lucius Malfoy as he welcomed him into the drawing room. Screams were uncomfortably audible from where they sat in their leather wing-backed chairs. He tried to ignore them. He tried not to recognise -

 

“Drink?” Offered Malfoy with a wave towards an ornate decanter.

 

Snape declined with a curt shake of his head, raising his hand.

 

“Come, now, dear friend,” said Malfoy, disregarding the look in his companion’s eyes, lighting a cigar then puffing on it to get it going, “I’ll not hear it, we have much to celebrate, just take a bloody drink won’t you?”

 

Despite the jesting tone Malfoy employed, Snape saw a flicker of suspicion rise in those watery blue eyes of his and lowered his hand, accepting his offer after all. The blonde-haired man wore every thought on his sleeve, it rarely required legilimency to read his motives. A temptingly aged goblin-reserve firewhiskey was immediately placed on the small polished mahogany table at his side  He eyed it longingly but neglected it as they spoke.

 

“I hear Bellatrix is… having her fun?” Asked Snape plainly, holding back a storm behind his eyes.

 

He remembered belatedly to smirk so covered this by leaning down to finger the crystal glass containing his favoured amber liquid. The aroma that emanated from the glass drew his attention more than Lucius’ answer – it took everything he had just to concentrate. He absent-mindedly pressed his robe – a habit to reassure himself of the presence of his sobering potion – and inwardly cursed himself inside out when he realised he hadn’t replaced it following his use earlier. He’d have to stay sober the old-fashioned way after all.

 

Malfoy was struggling to contain his glee at having finally got something to show for his efforts to the Dark Lord. He gave an embarrassed smile each time they overheard yells and shrieks from the rooms above, shrugging his shoulders in mild amusement but evidently partly frustrated the fluency of his story-telling was being interrupted.

 

Every overheard scream tore through Snape like a dagger in his chest. He knew it was Miss Granger. He was able to light-heartedly return his friend’s smiles and laughter as his mind wandered, wondering what he would do if Malfoy offered to escort him upstairs to take a look at his ex-student. The thought lingered. It would be the first time in months he’d actually feel outside of her mercy. Actually in control. He wondered if she’d see him, here, and be scared of him now.

 

“Let me see her.” It was less of a request, more of a statement.

 

Lucius raised his eyebrows at his dark-haired friend. His watchful gaze took in the dark shadows under Snape’s eyes and the unkempt shadow of his unshaven jaw. His appearance wasn’t too dissimilar to his own. They were both having their own individual trials, it seemed.

 

“Bellatrix has it in hand, Severus,” He said, slowly, silkily. “And you haven’t touched your drink.”

 

It was too much. Snape stood abruptly. He had to trust Dobby - after all, he couldn’t trust himself anymore.

 

“Then I’m afraid I must go, Lucius.”

 

Lucius stayed seated, overtly comfortable in his leather chair, one leg crossed and bouncing over the other, demonstrably amused with the uncharacteristic discomfiture displayed by his companion.

 

“I’m sure you could have her, afterwards, friend.” He chuckled, knocking back his dram of firewhiskey.

 

Snape silently turned away as he took in what Malfoy was saying.

 

“All that moaning and screaming… it turns me on too, you know,“ Malfoy beamed widely as he filled his own glass from the decanter, “But you’ll get your turn.”

 

Snape, wordless, stormed from the room out of the manor, leaving Malfoy chucking into his drink, calling after him “Patience, dear boy!”


	10. Fool

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love to hear what you think :)

There was only one person he needed to see. He vaulted up the spiral steps with the agility of a much younger man, and marched through the doorway of his office, breathing heavily, sweat glistening in beads at his brow.

 

“I need you.” He glanced away the feeling of revulsion that began to gather in his chest with the words.

 

Dumbledore’s portrait snored softly, unstirring. His face was relaxed into a half-smile and each breath in and out was rhythmic and measured. So, it was going to be like this, was it?

 

“Dumbledore.” He attempted to restrain his impatience cutting into his syllables, “Please. I need help.”

 

The portrait opened one eye and glanced towards the tall, dark wizard who was still standing slightly panting in the doorway. Dumbledore expelled a prolonged sigh and, as usual, pulled his spectacles further down his nose to examine the professor over the top of them. His eyes traced thoughtfully across Snape’s unhealthily lean form which had started to appear engulfed by his robes. His beard was scraggy, and bottomless dark circles lived beneath the burning black fires of his eyes.

 

“I know why you have come, Severus.” Snape raised a questioning eyebrow and Dumbledore continued; “Ah yes, you see I have connections with the residents of portraits in many useful locations. It was quite a risk you took this evening – quite an unnecessary risk which has sadly uncovered your position.”

 

Snape looked on incredulously at Dumbledore’s painting. His glare fixated so deeply on his shining blue eyes that he was sure he could feel sparks of dark magic crackling at his fingertips, powered by fury.

 

“And… how are you supposing I have done this?” he asked slowly, not blinking, through a painfully clenched jaw.

 

“You were tested, Severus.”

 

Snape’s breath caught in his chest.

 

“Mr Lucius Malfoy appears to have come across an interesting coin that was in Miss Granger’s possession. I believe you have its sister in your pocket, Severus.”

 

Reflexively, Snape’s fingers reached for the galleon in his robe. It still read ‘Malfoy Manor’ around its edge. Realisation drowned Snape as the bottom of his stomach made a lurch towards the floor. Lucius had sent the message. 

 

“I do not believe he intends to ‘out’ you, but this does complicate matters…” Dumbledore went on, but Snape’s ears were ringing and his vision narrowing at the sides.

 

He pinched the bridge of his nose, tightened his eyelids over his reddening eyes and took deep, shaking breaths. After all these years. After all this time - besting Malfoy had been second nature since they were at school together. Of all the potential threats he had faced, how had he allowed himself to be outsmarted by that insipid fool? He collapsed back into his chair and raked his hair back from his face with his pale fingers. He touched the beard growth below his lower lip with his fingertips. It felt alien, this unfamiliar face beneath his hands.

 

He controlled his breathing. He focussed his thoughts and time seemed to slow. His forehead unwrinkled. His path became clear.

 

“I have been careless, Headmaster.”

 

Dumbledore peered at him down his crooked nose, with an interested expression appearing over his kind features.

 

Snape took to his feet, fists clenched behind the small of his poker-straight back. Again, he addressed the former headmaster with a sudden firmness and reasoned tone.

 

“I will see that this matter is resolved with the utmost urgency.”

 

Without waiting for a response, he turned on the balls of his feet and stalked out of the office and down the steps, leaving the Dumbledore in the portrait’s eyes twinkling with understanding.

 

Snape flew through the door into his rooms, the ironwork of the handle banging hard onto the stone wall. He flourished his wand, and in one swift, practised movement the empty bottles, dirty clothes, cigar butts and various odds and ends covering the floor disappeared. The books strewn across the room were replaced carefully to their rightful ordered position on the bookcase that covered a full wall. The glass from smashed potion jars and vials flew together like they were magnetic, and they refilled themselves with the contents that had been splashed down the walls. Cupboard doors banged closed and his bed was made afresh.

 

He took a breath through his prominent nose and stepped towards the mirror in his ornate private bathroom. His lips tightened briefly at the visage he viewed – but rather than tackling his unkempt face, he reached forwards and pressed his fingertips behind the frame of the mirror, pulling it forwards on a hidden hinge and revealing a small rectangular defect in the stone wall behind. Concealed within it was a small unassuming crystal vial containing a deep, potently purple liquid. His last vial of _Deditio_. He paused, eyeing it momentarily before snatching it and placing it within the inside breast pocket of his stained robes. He grasped at one of his sleeves and purposefully ripped it open at the shoulder. He took a deep breath before throwing a curse at his exposed upper arm, wincing briefly at the deep cut that followed the line of his wand.

 

Unshaken, he made his way back towards the entrance to his rooms, before spotting an unopened bottle of the amber firewhiskey at his bedside. He paused, reaching for it and pouring a good measure down his front. The strong fumes of alcohol gave a powerful punch. The corner of his lips flickered into a brief smile before he headed back down through the castle grounds towards the forest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, he's back, baby


	11. Old Friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **WARNING **  
> **Graphic depictions of violence**  
> **WARNING**

Malfoy Manor stood tall against the pale shadows of hills and trees. The night sky was becoming dramatic, overcast and cool, threatening any moment to break into heavy showers of rain.

 

As he drew near, Snape slowed and concentrated on exhibiting a purposeful stagger. He was again admitted entry, and led to his usual seat in the drawing room. He pressed his fingers into the aged leather arms of the wingback firmly until his knuckles whitened. Looking around him he saw books appearing mostly unread. There were two portraits adorning the wall to his rear. They would be unable to see his face – or in fact any of his body hidden behind the large armchair. He turned to see them watching the room closely. In the corner was Lucius’ drinks’ cabinet.

 

Snape gave a glance behind him and called “Accio Firewhiskey.”

 

Covering his actions with his body, he made exaggerated motions of pouring a glass and knocking it back, whilst keeping his glass intentionally dry. He turned acutely, looking apparently embarrassed to be caught as Lucius entered.

 

Lucius’ eyes made obvious movements up and down Snape’s seemingly frail form. He reached out and took his friend’s glass from him, pouring for him as Snape’s hands trembled.

 

“Sit down, dear friend,” he crooned, an almost sincere look of pity crossing his pale and pointed features, seemingly unmoved to see his companion again so soon.

 

Snape, shaking, took a seat, nodding gratefully towards Malfoy and giving him a weak smile. His eyes did not leave the other man’s face as he took the opposite wingback chair. Lucius’ eyebrows raised as he took in the large gash across Snape’s shoulder and he took a sharp intake of air.

 

“Merlin, Severus, what **has** become of you?” He tutted, looking closer around the side of him ensuring no blood had been smeared onto his antique chair. “You’re a complete mess.”

 

Snape grimaced in agreement and shrugged his shoulders.

 

“I need your help, Lucius,” He said quietly, from low down in his abdomen. His shaking hands fumbled over one another as if they were unsure what to do with themselves. Lucius couldn’t hold back a smirk before his feigned compassionate expression.

 

“Of course, Severus – whatever I can do to help such a loyal friend.”

 

“Let me see her, Lucius,” Snape said, even quieter so that Malfoy had to lean closer to hear. Malfoy responded with another smirk and pushed himself back in to his chair triumphantly, crossing his legs.

 

“I knew it – I just knew it!” he smiled, shaking his head, and lighting a cigar. Snape saw his hands slide surreptitiously over where his wand was sheathed within his robes.

 

“You thought I wouldn’t work it out, but I’ve been on to you for a while,” He exaggerated, flicking ash on to a silver tray by his side and leaning forwards, elbows over his knees to look Snape directly in the eye.

 

“You’re an utter state, old friend,” he repeated and gestured to the mess of his robes, “I’ll help you, of course, but it will be very difficult for me.” He raised his eyebrows to check Snape’s understanding of the personal effort and sacrifice he was offering.

 

“If you’re in cahoots with Potter, then – “

 

Snape threw himself onto his knees at Malfoy’s feet, grabbing his wrists, pleadingly. He gave a great moan of anguish into the marble floor beneath him and called “No, friend!”

 

Lucius instinctively made a move to pull away with a mixture of surprise, disgust and fear, but Snape continued his lament; “No, friend – it is the girl, only the girl!” He cried, and fell back dramatically onto his side and wept, making sure to press his shoulder into the cream marble to mark it with his blood. He rolled a little towards a fur rug that was within reach before Malfoy clutched the front of his robes to bring him up to his height. Snape wondered if this was more of an act of compassion for his expensive furnishings than towards himself.

 

Malfoy tapped Snape’s cheek with the back of his knuckles, studying his turmoil almost with interest. “Yes… yes, I can see that now,” he dropped the sodden fabric of Snape’s robes and patted him neatly. “This Granger girl... and not Potter.”

 

“I’d have murdered that fucking Potter brat years ago!” Snape spat with tear stains streaking his dirty cheeks, “But he is to die at the Dark Lord’s hands only. I want the girl for myself, but the rest – “ and he broke off again into anguished wails on his hands and knees.

 

“For Merlin’s sake, Severus – you fool!” Shouted Lucius, “You should have told me! You had me thinking you were with the Order! What if I had brought this to the Dark Lord?”

 

Snape’s dark shining eyes caught Malfoy’s watery blue gaze.

 

“I trust you to protect me from the Dark Lord, as I have you and your family over these years. We work towards the same goal, do we not?”

 

Malfoy sat back into his wingback chair and picked his cigar back up. Taking a long drag and filling the air around him with swirling smoke he evidently considered the task being proposed.

 

“I will keep this between us.” He submitted. “But I cannot give you the girl, because she is not here.”

 

Snape looked up at Malfoy, with a real, unfeigned confusion.

 

“They escaped, Severus. Minutes after you left. I had suspected you were behind it, but evidently not.” Malfoy went on bitterly, “I am awaiting my punishment by the Dark Lord. You are lucky you found me beforehand, old friend…”

 

Snape’s thoughts raced. How had he not known they had escaped? Why had Dobby not returned to him to inform him of his success? Where had they escaped to? He stood, slowly, contemplating his next move. Inside his head was full of noise. Suddenly he was pulled from it when Lucius, still rambling came out with the words: “I did not know you cared for the girl, Severus.”

 

His thoughts immediately halted, he almost stopped breathing. “What do you mean?” He demanded. His face drained to ice. He knew his companion well.

 

Lucius shifted in his seat, pouring himself a glass of firewhiskey, avoiding Snape’s eyes.

 

“I said – “ he started, but Snape raised a warning hand to interrupt. He was regaining all countenance and forgoing the weak, whimpering mask he had until now employed.

 

“I heard what you said, Lucius.” He gave a dangerous look but spoke with a pleasant tone. “What did you do?”

 

There was a silence in the drawing room except for the whirring of a magical clock resting on the grand mantelpiece.

 

Lucius swallowed, “Had I known she was **yours** …” he broke off, and Snape saw his eyes glance quickly towards the door. He lifted his glass to take a sip, but Snape carefully leant forwards and wordlessly gripped Malfoy’s wrist, forcing him to set the glass down on the table next to him. Malfoy glanced upwards nervously, catching the threatening stare Snape’s endlessly black eyes had fixed on him.

 

Without letting go of his wrist, Snape placed the forefinger of his other hand patronisingly under Lucius’ chin, lifting it so they were eye to eye.

 

“What did you do, Lucius?” he repeated in the same light, silky tone.

 

Lucius let out a single breath of a nervous laugh. “It was nothing, dear friend,” he began, excessively blinking, but Snape placed his grip carefully and firmly around Malfoy’s neck, pulling him briskly upwards out of his chair.

 

Malfoy’s eyes bulged with panic, and he attempted another uncomfortable gulp.

 

“Let me be the judge of that.” Commanded Snape, remaining quiet and measured. Lucius pursed his lips and did not respond. At this, Snape calmly turned to the portraits behind them and with a violent whip of his wand the occupants were instantly expunged, alight with flames and the entire canvases blackened. Lucius’ eyes widened with fright.

 

Without a single flicker changing his neutral expression, Snape walked him straight into the wall, pushing him firmly against it by his neck – his practised movement of domination. Malfoy struggled against his grip, reaching up around his captor’s sizeable hands. Snape calmly batted him away with his wand hand, holding his blonde head still and forcing himself upon Malfoy’s fearful eyes.

 

“Legilimens.” He growled.

 

The room lurched and was pulled away behind him and he entered the memories immediately with ease. Lucius didn’t even put up a fight.

 

When he extricated himself from the other man’s mind, he was panting hard and Lucius’ eyes were watering in horror. Snape felt dirty, holding those memories in his own mind. They stood inches away from each other’s face in silence.

 

Keeping hold of Malfoy’s neck, Snape reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the purple vial. He held it between their faces, in front of Lucius’ vision.

 

“You know what this is.” He stated quietly.

 

Lucius squirmed against him with realisation. He opened his mouth to speak, but Snape only held the man harder, feeling the soft tissues crunching disturbingly under his grip. Snape settled the vial in Malfoy’s open mouth. The man held it cautiously between his teeth, his eyes wild and widening further still, unsure of what Snape was capable of. He gave a whimper. Sweat was dripping down the sides of his pale pointed face. His breath fogged the glass of the vial in his mouth.

 

“This,” Snape said calmly, pointing at the purple fluid dancing around in the crystal between Malfoy’s lips, “This is my old passion, _Deditio_. There is enough in this vial to kill you. Should you survive, you will most certainly beg for death. It will ruin you.” He licked his lips. “You will surrender yourself to it. Life will not be worth living without precious _Deditio,_ and this is the last vial in existence.” 

 

Lucius let out a desperate sound that gave Snape a flash of the memory he had just witnessed.

 

With this, Snape released the fingers holding the terrified man against the wall. Lucius had time only to let out a breath of relief past the vial between his teeth as he slid slightly down the wall. Without missing a beat, Snape curled his fingers into a tight fist. He took a step towards his old friend, lunging to punch him with the full weight of his body. His fist hit hard, cutting up under Malfoy’s chin, crashing teeth on teeth. Under his hand, Snape felt the glass smash in Malfoy’s mouth. The man collapsed to the floor. Snape turned on the spot immediately, apparating away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He's a bad, bad man.


	12. Diversion

Snape‘s feet hit the floor of the Forbidden Forest. He stretched his right hand, his knuckles were already swollen, spattered with flecks of glass and blood. He knew it wouldn’t be long until Malfoy was found. He gritted his teeth, he actually willed the Death Eaters to attempt to confront him. Only he, Snape, had the courage and the will to do what it took to get to the end of this. He’d take on any and all of them right now. With pleasure.

 

Flashes of the night’s events invaded his mind. Images of Granger swirled with bursts of Malfoy’s face – his white lips lacerated with the sharp glass, dripping in dark red blood mixed with the violent purple _Deditio_. The man was an animal, thought Snape grimly. He deserved whatever he got.

 

He felt a renewed life; a heady adrenaline pulsing through him as he strode evenly through the trees towards Hogwarts. Power. The castle was an imposing shadow against the midnight blue sky. Snape considered: had he been at its helm properly, had he been given a real opportunity to lead this school; he would have built it up to be a masterpiece in intimidation to the rest of the wizarding world. If only he had been given the chance to show how powerful he truly was.

 

Entering his rooms, he stripped his stained and torn robes from his body and stood in his shower in silence; thinking, planning. He watched the water turn from clear to red as his blood and Malfoy’s washed together. Looking up, his mirror still hung open on its hinge, the hideaway in the wall behind now conspicuously bare.

 

Walking to close it over and reviewing himself in its reflection, he waved his wand and slowly, carefully, he was cleanly shaven, his hair neatened and cleaned to an unusual shine. New robes flew from his wardrobe, and he buttoned himself purposefully into them. He stopped at the top of his chest, leaving the buttons open around his neck and rolled his sleeves up around his elbows, exposing his scars and the Dark Mark. His strong forearms tightened as he clenched his fists with determination. Who was there to hide from now?

 

He marched to the Headmaster’s office. Without waiting to see if the Dumbledore in the portrait was even conscious he demanded:

 

“Where are they – the Potter boy and the others?”

 

Blinking, Dumbledore answered plainly; “You know I cannot tell you that, Severus.”

 

Snape expected this answer. “But you know they are safe… probably behind a Secret Keeper...” Snape supposed, and didn’t wait for the portrait’s response before turning to leave. Secret Keeper. If this was the case, he wouldn’t be able to see her location even if he followed someone directly to it. Even if he was standing at the front door. But she would know this – so it was certainly her move this time.

 

“Dobby the House Elf did not survive.”

 

Snape stopped in his tracks.

 

Dumbledore continued, “You sent him. A brilliant idea, I must admit, Severus. But sadly, even the most brilliant of plans often require sacrifice…” He looked meaningfully towards Snape, whose skin was heated, almost glowing rather than his usual ashen, sallow complexion. Snape’s thoughts aligned rapidly. Dumbledore needn’t be so indirect – Snape knew he meant himself when he spoke of ‘sacrifice’. He always expected and made peace with the fact that he most likely join the fallen, his life a cost of victory. Dumbledore himself had led the way, making the ultimate sacrifice after all. But until now, Snape hadn’t realised how much he **wanted** to prevail.

 

Wordless, he continued to the door and down the steps.

 

-

 

The closer he stepped towards the inevitability of death, the more alive he felt.

 

He attended meetings with the other Death Eaters and the Dark Lord with a renewed vigour and strength of mind. He had identified who he would blame for each and every torment laid to rest upon his soul – they would pay when he was finally able to act upon it. And that end was in sight.

 

Malfoy’s absence only made the game more interesting. Bellatrix, already suspicious of Snape, always prised at his excuses, trying to string him out to dry before the Dark Lord. But to her dismay, he had always been one of Voldemort’s favourites. Once the Dark Lord had made that decision it was impenetrable.

 

Tonight, Snape smirked at Bellatrix through every attempt of hers to pick him apart, he was cleverer than her. Even when she hit the nail directly on the head, he had got there before her. Malfoy had been found unconscious and in a bad way. They weren’t sure if he would live. The Death Eaters couldn’t work out what was causing his condition, and Snape knew they never would; without his help.

 

“Snape will see to him.” said Voldemort and moving on as if this news regarding Malfoy was beneath his recognition. Lucius Malfoy had been steadily slipping out of his favour for some time, now.

 

“My Lord,” Started Bellatrix, with almost a embarrassing amount of reverence, “Snape was admitted to Malfoy Manor the night it happened, by a House Elf!” She pointed a long, gnarled finger towards Snape without looking at him. “And only **he** would have the ability to do this to dear Lucius - one of his potions!”

 

Voldemort gave a high-pitched laugh of derision but turned to Snape to enjoy his denial all the same.

 

“I do not deny it, my Lord.” Said Snape plainly, causing some of the party to cough with surprise. There was silence as all eyes darted questioningly around the room. He could sense a communal elevation of fear as they were clearly unsure who would be punished, for what, and when.

 

“Indeed, I was there, and am responsible for his condition.” Said Snape, cooly. Horror filled the silent room. Voldemort made no movement. “But, allow me to show you my reasoning, my Lord.” Snape offered, confidently looking directly into the red eyes of the Dark Lord with clear intention.

 

Accepting his invitation, Voldemort pushed with ease into his thoughts, and Snape delivered a prepared montage of events. He gave an altered version of Malfoy’s memories to him instead of his own: Snape was in Malfoy manor brutally molesting Hermione Granger. He offered up the precise feeling of glee he felt - laughing as she struggled and screamed with fear beneath his hands. Images flickered by of Malfoy drowning his sorrows with firewhiskey and potion in the drawing room. He fed the Dark Lord flashes of him, Snape, sitting calmly on a wingback leather chair observing Malfoy giving pathetic whines of anguish, in tatters and degradation on the floor.

 

He pulled to the fore of his mind a bedraggled Malfoy moaning “I’d have killed that fucking Potter brat years ago if it wasn’t for the Dark Lord… I want the girl for myself!” and cut to Snape punching him square in the face with all the malice he truly felt, the memory bursting with technicolour honesty. The Dark Lord extricated himself from his mind and his eyes almost watered with satisfaction and pride. He twisted his snake-like features into a dangerous smile towards his most loyal and dependable Death Eater, Severus Snape.

 

“As you saw, my Lord,” stated Snape, carefully enunciating each word without taking his eyes from the gleaming red of Voldemort’s, “I took care of a man not worth your slightest concern.”

 

Bellatrix recoiled in horror as Voldemort nodded, impressed with Snape, and ordered that they dispose of Malfoy regardless of the state he was in.

 

“B-but my sister, and Draco..!” she screeched, but Voldemort silenced her.

 

“They may stay - if they can prove their worth!” hissed Voldemort with a tone so sharp it was clear it would be perilous to pursue this further. Bellatrix instead focussed her anger in her glare towards Snape, who merely twitched his lips into a half smile to vex her further. Oh, this wasn’t over.


	13. Conflict

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is he in control of all of this, or just becoming more tangled up?!
> 
> Always eager to read your comments!

His nights were plagued with visions. Lucius hadn’t been able to prevent Snape striding through a single moment of his memories, and Snape had wanted to know everything - he needed to, he ensured Lucius censored nothing. He had seen Lucius behave as an instrument of torment, molestation and violence in his past, but this was different. This time, Snape felt guilt. Wasn’t this the same mistake he had made with Lily? He wasn’t unhappy unless his ‘friend’s’ behaviour affected those he cared about?

 

To protect his cover, he had always overlooked Lucius’ lewd behaviour. He had never been a part of it, merely a witness, but through years of ignoring it, Snape had in essence promoted it. He knew that had he allowed it to trouble him deeply every time, he would never have survived it so long, so either he became immune to it all, or fail.

 

The conflict inside Snape edged effervescently to the surface like foam - he himself had even behaved lecherously towards Granger not too long ago. He knew he had wanted more from her, and the only thing restraining him was the remaining fragile threads of his ethical integrity, which at the time he had cursed the existence of! Was he actually starting to feel a jealousy for Lucius’ lack of morals? He reviled the thought, but knew it would be easier than his swinging in the limbo between constantly allowing himself to act immorally, whilst concomitantly harbouring this covert conscience.

 

Lying in his bed, he brought his bare arms out in front of his body and turned his hands over to examine them. Could his body harm her in the same way that Malfoy’s had? Was it different just because of what side he was on?

 

It had felt so good to feel his fist against Malfoy’s face. The pleasure in finally releasing his real emotion was something he hadn’t felt in a long time. The animal physicality of the act had torn through the bindings holding back the fury in his mind, and now everything was bubbling on the surface. Pure rage. He saw the memory of Malfoy roughly forcing the girl to take his cock in her mouth and had to revisit the experience of hurting him again and again just to placate his anger from provoking a magical explosion within him.

 

He felt the raw passion of the act anew each time he relived his attack. Simultaneously, he felt need build up within him, a need for Granger herself. It had been weeks now since he had last followed her. After this time, he knew that just watching her from a distance would not be enough to satisfy his bodily demand. He thought back to his own hand pressing her up against the wall by her jaw, and wanted to see the need she had shown him in her eyes, an exact reflection of his own urge to kiss her.  He knew that she might never feel that way again after the ruin Malfoy had enacted upon her. But he needed to know what was left.

 

A difficult thought entered his head again as he knew it would. It crept in. His mind flitted to wondering how her lips would feel, gently encircling his own cock and he couldn’t quell a quiver that ran down his spine. He knew it was wrong; here was a young girl who he had had witnessed being used and degraded, and yet all his depraved mind could focus on were his own sexual desires. And yet the image filtered its way in. It had been so easy to show Lord Voldemort the false memory of him molesting Granger instead of Malfoy because his mind had already taken him there. More than once.

 

But wasn’t now the time to show his hand of cards to the world? It had felt so easy, so good so far. His Dark Mark was in the open, he didn’t have to put up a wall around himself anymore. He had taken the risk with Voldemort with regards to what had happened with Lucius, and it had paid off – perhaps he should just be honest with himself about this, too?

 

He wrapped his fingers around his throbbing arousal and pumped into his hand, slowly at first. Flashes of her, bare and walking into the lake vibrantly filled his mind, he was entering a vivid, savoured memory. He moved more quickly and firmly against his cock as he pictured her wet, swollen lips taking his shaft to the hilt, her eyes ablaze with desire for him – the image made him spill over with pleasure almost immediately.

 

He knew that he would have no remorse in leaving many more in a state like Lucius in the wake of him getting to her. She was the only goal, now.

 

-

 

A familiar pairing entered his humble front room in his terrace at Spinners’ End. He closed the door to the street and without looking at either of the witches he sat comfortably in his armchair. There were no other chairs in the very simple room, but even if there had been, he wouldn’t have offered them a seat. Narcissa and Bellatrix looked unimpressed with his ignorance, uncomfortably glaring down at him as he obnoxiously lit a cigar. The dynamic was very different to just over a year previously when he had made the unbreakable vow.

 

“I’m surprised you’re not pretending you aren’t home, Snape,” spat Bellatrix, starting to circle him in his chair like he was her prey.

 

“Narcissa informed me of your intention to visit.” He said calmly, nodding at the sister who had remained standing stock-still, considering the dark wizard before her.

 

Narcissa cleared her throat, “Lucius needs your help.” she said quietly, her eyes not leaving Snape’s face.

 

He coughed violent barks of smoke-filled laughter and then, stopping suddenly, he sprang formidably from his chair to face her, closely eye to eye.

 

“And what in Merlin’s shitting name would tempt me to want to help **him**?” he glared seriously. He pointed at Bellatrix with his lit cigar, wafting smoke her way in its wake. “Didn’t she tell you what I did?”

 

Narcissa slowly nodded, but her countenance did not change. “I know it was you that… that did it to him, Snape,” she said, a tear dropping quickly and almost unnoticed down her cheek, “And that’s why I know you’re the only person who can… who can fix him.”

 

“No doubt.” Smirked Snape, arrogantly, “But you still haven’t answered my first question.” He threw himself back into his tattered armchair which emitted a small plume of dust. He looked between the crazed, pacing Bellatrix and the ashen-faced blonde statue of Narcissa. A few moments passed where the sisters eyed only each other in silence.

 

Narcissa took a deep breath.

 

“I know what he is, Snape. I know he has never been the most loyal follower to our cause.” Snape’s eyebrows raised, but Narcissa continued. “But he is my husband – and Draco’s father – and you have always been so dear to both of them. I know he deserved what you did to him, but we-“ and she raised her hand to include Bellatrix,  “would be ceaselessly grateful for your help. We would be entirely at your service.”

 

And at this, Bellatrix bowed her head in acceptance of the statement. Snape’s eyes widened at the enormity of this gesture from the wild witch who openly despised him.

 

“Indeed?” He said, without blinking. He had expected this submission from Narcissa, but from Bellatrix? This was disconcerting. He flinched as her hand suddenly held his shoulder from behind and she curled herself around his chair to face him.

 

“…at your service…” She repeated in a hoarse whisper, and her open palm forcibly pushed down his chest to his waist, creating an uncomfortable friction against the ripples in his robes’ fabric. His hand gripped hers, prising it off his body and immediately releasing it as if it was something revolting, stopping her progress towards Merlin knows what.

 

“That won’t be necessary.” He said calmly, his face unchanged.

 

Bellatrix flung her arms up into the air as if exasperated but threw a knowing sneer Snape’s way. She wouldn’t have offered that kind of ‘service’ had she any doubt Snape would outright refuse it. Narcissa gave her a reproachful glance.

 

“So you’ll do it?” Narcissa asked. There was a moment of silence broken only by Bellatrix being unable to fully contain her cackle of a giggle.

 

“Bring him here.” He agreed tonelessly, before opening the front door in an obvious direction for the pair to leave. Narcissa’s stony expression broke and she nodded gratefully and left without a word. Bellatrix ran her forefinger along Snape’s jaw playfully as she walked out of the door to the street causing Snape to recoil, repulsed.


	14. Deditio

The next evening, he was pulling the pallid, unconscious man inside, a false but amiable smile directed towards the passers-by, chuckling ‘can’t take his ale’ whilst cursing strongly under his breath at the weight of him. The minute he got Malfoy past the threshold he slammed the door and used magic to fling the man up the stairs and onto Snape’s bed where he lolled limply onto his back in an uncomfortable-looking position.

 

The irony wasn’t lost on Snape; having to babysit the problem he himself had caused. At least he could use this to his advantage. He would need ingredients for a potion, and the two sisters would stop at nothing to source them for him. Would they notice if they obtained for him a couple extra pieces along the way? He thought not.

 

He would make more _Deditio_ , of course, but alongside it he would brew something potentially even more powerful. He would make a vial of Fraus’ Draught. This potion was like the reflection of veritaserum. It enabled the witch or wizard who took it to be believed by all – everything they vocalised would be taken as the absolute truth regardless of any contradicting evidence presented to the listener. It would be useful, no doubt – but despite his extensive reading, he hadn’t come across evidence of a successful brew of this potion in the last few centuries.

 

The list of ingredients was long, and he knew some items would be difficult to retrieve, but he had faith that desperation would prove an effective motivator – for Narcissa, at least. Slowly but surely, the products filtered through to either his home or his office in Hogwarts. Lucius was no trouble during this time – a sleeping lump filling his bed, occasionally visited by his wife. He missed the solitude the terrace at Spinners’ End had previously offered, but it was a small price to pay if he got what he wanted.

 

The kitchen at Spinners’ End had been set up as a potions’ lab for many years, now – he was never one for cooking proper meals anyway, as demonstrated by his sinewy frame.  The smell of brewing _Deditio_ wafting through the house made him feel like he was truly home again when he arrived late one night. A home that he had hoped was long lost.

 

It took his thoughts back to the darkest phase in his life. Lily had died, Dumbledore had failed him, and to top it all, he bore a brand on his arm linking him terminally to the disbanded failure of a tribe that were the Death Eaters. He had no one and nothing but the delights of the indigo juice for too long. How easy it would be to slip back in to that life. To just take the first vial of it, and Lucius could wait a little longer for his salvation – he deserved no less than that.

 

His awareness began to glaze as the aroma insidiously started to take control of his thoughts. It was like he was slowly floating with a wide body of water, naïvely flowing towards the edge of a waterfall – fated to plunge uncontrolled and crashing into depths unknown. Without warning, the chestnut eyes of Miss Granger snapped into his mind, and the creeping craving to surrender to the purple potion vanished like an extinguished fire. Scarred and charred ashes of the feeling remained but nothing left lingering with enough potential to ignite.

 

Interesting. This was the second time the power of passion had performed a kind of self-occlumency against his own unwanted emotion.

 

Ignoring this, his attention was drawn to what was bubbling gently next to the _Deditio:_ his tiny flask of Fraus’ Draught. A highly complex potion, he had only enough ingredients for one vial. He had tried many times before and had, on numerous occasions, failed dreadfully, sometimes dangerously. He supposed that it was now or never. Hesitantly peering over the simmering potion, he saw it was a satisfying shade of yellow – a sign that his attempts had finally been fruitful this time. His eyes stung with a mixture of potent fumes and a rare feeling; pride.

 

-

 

He would need to deliver the _Deditio_ to Malfoy without Narcissa present, and he could hear her upstairs. She came in and out as she pleased; he often avoided her in order to evade any questions about the potion. He waited for her to take her leave. The latch to the door clicked. He took the dark stairway leading to his even darker bedroom. The tar-stained curtains haphazardly pulled across the small window repelled any light that dared to try and enter. On the dull sheets, the man lay helpless, his clammy face still bearing the marks from Snape’s attack.

 

Snape placed a knee over as much of Malfoy as he could manage, in preparation to hold him down - just in case. The weight of his body over the man, he lifted the vial over Malfoy's mouth and allowed a few drops to drip past his dry lips. Malfoy took a small gasp and licked his lips. His eyes flickered. The _Deditio_ was still warm from brewing; it was at its finest - Snape remembered this feeling well. It was like waking from a nightmare into a dream of purest pleasures – the pleasure became the only thing you lived for.

 

“More.” Croaked Malfoy, his voice unused for weeks.

 

His knees either side of Malfoy, pinning both his arms into the bed, Snape tipped the vial, dabbing a small amount of the violet onto his forefinger, and rammed it into Malfoy’s mouth, shocking his eyelids open – their eyes met. Snape held his mouth open with his finger forcefully, mastering the pale man beneath him. Malfoy was initially frozen with fear and confusion, but the pure addiction drew a complete submission from him. The tip of his tongue tentatively touched the fluid on Snape’s finger, and his eyes flickered upwards into his head with ecstasy and his head dropped backwards into the bed. Malfoy was his to own, now. The sisters had no idea what they had been asking for.


	15. Pet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After a reasonable hiatus  
> Here I am again  
> Hopefully inspired by my own emotional turmoil  
> Your responses make me feel loved so be generous and spread them lavishly upon this virtual environment

The next morning, Lucius would need another dose. There was an art to this kind of domination game that Snape savoured. He would need to time it perfectly so that Narcissa’s husband wouldn’t be withdrawing upon her arrival. He would therefore have to wait until the man was literally begging for it so that he’d give it as late as possible. He was watching his Fraus’ Draught perfect under a heating charm and he heard the man’s stumbling feet creak down the wooden stairs. Carefully closing the kitchen door and securing it with a charm, he came to Malfoy, who was on his knees at the foot of the stairs, looking up at Snape with red rings around watery blue eyes.

 

“S-Severus.” He croaked, edging towards Snape with his trembling hands outstretched and wandering before him. “Please…”

 

Snape slickly felt inside his dark robes and produced a fresh vial of Deditio, grasping it between thumb and forefinger wordlessly tormenting his old friend. Malfoy grasped at Snape’s robes from his cowering position on the floor and bowed his head in reverence.

 

“Please.” He repeated.

 

Snape studied the pathetic man before him. “Your wife will be eager to see how your condition has improved.” He said.

 

Malfoy’s pale eyes were planted firmly on the floor in deference, “Then… she will see I have made g-good recovery. She won’t hear of… how.”

 

“Good.” Said Snape, satisfied. “It would become ever so difficult for me to be tempted to make _Deditio_ for you if I met with any hassle from Narcissa... or her sister.”

 

Malfoy squirmed with realisation of the position he was in now. “Yes.” He nodded.

 

“And the _Deditio_ stays with me always, Malfoy. I don’t leave it around the house like a fool. When you need it, you find **me**. Me only.” His deep, silky voice took no prisoners.

 

“Yes.” Confirmed Malfoy again, panting with the desire for his craving to be extinguished. He didn’t dare lift his head, his eyes still trained on the dated pattern on the carpet floor covering beneath his knees. “I’ll do anything.” He whispered.

 

“Good.” Repeated Snape. “Then take it, you little creep.” And he dabbed another violet drop on to his finger and held it out towards the desperate man who knelt before him like a pet.

 

Malfoy looked up at him eagerly, and, knowing this was the only way the Snape would allow him to take it; sucked the purple potion off his finger with his hands diligently held behind his back. He swooned onto the floor with intense, immediate pleasure. Oh, it was worth the humiliation entirely. He was Snape’s bitch and he didn’t care.

 

-

 

As requested, Malfoy played the part and presented well to Narcissa. She was overwhelmed with gratitude towards Snape. As she went to leave that night, she briefly turned and pressed his cool hand kindly with thanks – for a woman who very much kept herself to herself, this was practically the equivalent of her warm, meaningful embrace. As the door snapped shut behind her, Malfoy gave Snape a questioning look – had he performed to expectations? Had the pet earned his reward?

 

Snape expelled an exasperated gust of air at the man and turned to head to the door himself, he had business at Hogwarts this night. Malfoy grasped at his robes, again taking to his knees on the hard floor.

 

“No, please, Severus!“ begged Malfoy, “Don’t leave me, without- without..”

 

Snape tutted at his companion in a feigned sympathy, a wide sneer across his face. “I pity you, Lucius. You’re not due any until morning and you know it.”

 

Malfoy dropped his hands to the floor and moaned. “I’ll do anything, my dear friend,” he looked up at Snape’s tall, domineering figure from his heap on the floor. “Do… do anything you want with me. I’ll… you can fuck me, or - I’ll suck you off if that’s what you want – anything, just give me the potion!”

 

Snape’s sneer continued as he shook his head at the idiocy. “If that’s what I wanted from you, Lucius, I’d have had it already.” He said quickly, and his smile turned to a serious stern stare.

 

He grabbed the hair on the back of Malfoy’s head roughly and pulled him towards himself firmly so that the man’s ear touched his lips. Snape spoke carefully and dangerously. Softly, like silk.

 

“If I had wanted to fuck you, Lucius, you’d have no part of your body left un-fucked and not a will left inside to resist me with.”

 

He threw the man back against the floor. His words were pinched and he enunciated to a pointed staccato; “You know what I want, and its nothing your debauched body can offer me, Lucius. I want her. I want the Granger girl. I want her returned to me safe, undamaged, untouched.”

 

Lucius’ mouth gaped “If I knew where they were, you know I’d have led the Dark Lord to them already!”

 

Snape glared back at the man, “We will know, soon enough. And when we do I expect you to ensure that no one – **no one** \- is to harm her, and that she is delivered to me. Directly - discretely.”

 

Malfoy nodded profusely and again bowed his head to the floor, expectantly. Snape threw a vial with a tiny remnant of _Deditio_ left within it carelessly in Malfoy’s direction, and left the terrace whilst the wretched blonde man was still scurrying around trying to retrieve it from where it had rolled under the armchair.

 


End file.
